Lauren Bravo

Monday, 10 February 2014

The other day I turned on an episode of QI. The show seemed different to normal, and it took me a few minutes to realise why: there were three women the panel. Three women and an Alan Davies. I blinked hard a few times, and checked the listings to see if it was some sort of QI: Oestrogen Special.

But hopefully soon such events won’t be astonishing at all, as this week, the BBC’s director of TV announced he was putting an end to panel shows with all-male line-ups. Danny Cohen told The Observer there was “no excuse” for the channel’s track record of testosterone-heavy casting, a promise that comes after a long campaign of criticism over shows like Mock the Week, which featured 38 male and only five female guest comedians on its most recent series.

“You can't do that. It's not acceptable," said Cohen. To which I think the only answer is "Obviously. But why stop at one?"

Before you splutter all over the comments section, let’s be clear that the end goal isn't a rigid 50/50 gender split of everything that ever goes on telly. Nobody's advocating shoehorning extra women into every possible scenario, just to make a statement.

As I see it, the ideal is to reach a point where we CAN have all-male panels again from time to time - because there would be enough all-female and fairly mixed panels to make the overall landscape a proportionate one. If you're hosting a panel on prostate cancer or male pattern baldness, by all means book a load of blokes – so long as you’re not booking them exclusively to comment on rape, maternity pay and abortion rights too.

Yes, it might mean token casting (though frankly, anyone who thinks we don’t have sufficient female comedy talent to fill the quota needs to get out/on YouTube more). Being the token anything is never anyone's ideal. But if a few years of tokenism can level the playing field to a point where it's no longer needed at all, sign me up.

The main issue we want to be fretting over isn't whether Cohen's rule will turn telly into a ladyfest full of token women padding out panels with their petal-scented opinions, but whether the minimum will also, through lazy resistance, become a maximum too.

Because one woman among three men is not, however you dress it up in novelty, very many women. It's half the amount needed to actually represent the population, and even fewer than the number needed to make up for years and years of all-male broadcasting at which nobody batted an eye. It's a ratio that will get you turned away from many West End nightclubs - yet one is better than none, and so it's on this crumb of progress we must feast for the time being.

And what's the alternative? We could sit back and wait another few decades for the balance to magically correct itself, all on its own. Maybe it will. But can we really expect a generation rich in fantastic female comedians and commentators to rise up and take the reins without a few more examples on TV to first let them know that it's possible?

Let’s fill the quota, overfill it, and top it up some more. Then when there are enough female voices on our screens, we can ditch the argument altogether – and won’t that be a relief?

My boyfriend is ill. Everything smells of Olbas Oil. There is a trail of tissues running through the flat like a germy version of Hansel and Gretel, and at the end of it instead of a gingerbread house, there is a bearded 28-year-old whimpering under a blanket.

Naturally we like to avoid gender stereotypes wherever possible, and so we will just say he has… ‘hyperbolic flu’. The kind that renders you unable speak in any voice except that of a cartoon vole. Still, he’s a grateful cartoon vole. “Taaank-oo” he snuffled when I made him his third Berocca of the day. “How… how would I survive without you?” he rasped from within his underwater mucus world when I forced him to take some more First Defence.

“Ohh… I don’t mind,” he wheezed when I called to see what the invalid wanted for dinner. Broccoli was what he wanted for dinner, I decided in the end. With loads of garlic because I dimly remembered that it was meant to be good for lurgy. I even let him eat the rest of the Haagen-Dazs afterwards, because I am apparently some kind of saint, but he’s got a Kinder Egg in the fridge that I’ve been eyeing up for three days now.

The truth is I’m not great at the Florence Nightingale act because I’ve never really had to do it before. The sickly person is normally me. As a hypochondriac with a healthy imagination and access to Google on three separate devices, I am never not at least a little bit ill, while he is perpetually, resolutely tickety-boo. Apart from hangovers, I have single-handedly brought all the malady to this relationship.

Before we got together he was barely even familiar with the idea of pharmaceuticals, preferring just to be in pain or burn off a fever through the sheer power of stubborn ignorance. Then I came along and said, in what was probably one of the most useful things I have ever said to him: “why would you willingly feel terrible, when you could have a Lemsip and feel slightly less terrible?”

This has all come back to bite me now that he’s actually been struck down and I have to be matron. When I’ve finished writing this I have to make a fresh hot water bottle, pick up the tissue trail, plump the pillows, fetch the Strepsils, do some sympathetic clucking noises and say, “the bad news is, I ate your Kinder Egg. The good news is, here’s a tiny plastic car!”

But it’ll all be worth it in a few days’ time, when I catch the same plague. Then order will be restored.

Of course, it wouldn’t be January without discovering something new that is killing us. This year it is sugar.

Now that cigarettes are all electric and everyone is running marathons and we all know not to climb pylons or walk on railways tracks anymore, sugar is the bad guy. I know, it’s enough to make you choke on your breakfast doughnut.

Of course we were always vaguely aware that a diet of candyfloss sandwiches wasn’t going to help us live forever, but sugar always used to be the thing that comforted us while we worried about the scarier stuff. Saturated fat; alcohol; sun damage. Standing too close to microwaves. It’s the fanfare at the end of a meal, the reward after a dentist appointment, the reason most of us sing Happy Birthday To You in such loud, tuneful vibrato.

But then campaign group Action on Sugar declared it “worse than tobacco” and suddenly 2014, if the Daily Mail’s misery machine has anything to do with it, will be the year we all go cold turkey on the sweet stuff. And probably on cold turkey too, for of course even processed savoury food is being packed full of sugar.

White bread? Sugar! Pasta sauce? Sugar! Salt? Sugar! Think of anything tasty, anything at all, and the chances are it has a Willy Wonka’s factory worth of corn syrup running secretly through the centre. Sugar is now the drug of our times. Never mind all the strung-out psychedelia corrupting youth in the 60s – turns out The Archies were the real danger all along.

It probably goes without saying that I’m pretty into sugar. In fact, I just looked down and found a chocolate digestive in my hand that I don’t even remember acquiring. After half an hour spent trying to work out exactly why it is that I have such a sweet tooth, and all I’ve managed to come up with is, “because sugar is delicious.” But then, that’s the addled brain of an addict talking.

I flirted with the idea of giving up caffeine recently, because it takes my already anxious disposition and jiggles it up and down like a Shake’n’Vac, but abandoned the plan when I realised that without caffeine, my only vices would be sugar and awful TV. Neither of those are sexy. There’s nothing illicit and dangerous about staying in to watch Storage Hunters and gouge all the cookie dough from a tub of Ben and Jerry’s.

Or at least, there wasn’t – until the papers made sugar the new villain. Now I’m torn between weaning myself off it for the sake of my health, and pouring maple syrup on my sandwiches because it might make me a bit edgy.

If they did a modern remake of Grease (and please don’t, film people) Sandy would probably appear at the end with a Twix hanging from her mouth instead of a fag - which is a rebellion I could definitely embrace. Although I might struggle with the spray-on trousers.

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

I’m writing this on Blue Monday - everyone’s favourite pseudoscientific PR stunt of a holiday! Next to Black Friday, Mauve Monday and Hide in a Wendy House Wednesday, that is.

Billed as the most depressing day of the year, it falls on the third Monday in January as a result of a made-up maths equation taking into account weather, debt, time since Christmas, likelihood one will have failed one’s new year’s resolutions and low motivational levels. Which all sounds pretty credible, if you don’t include people who like cold weather, don’t enjoy/celebrate Christmas, and are never happier than when they’re seeing off their resolutions with a bucket of fried chicken and another of gin.

What it also fails to explain is what happens on the third Tuesday in January to suddenly raise everybody’s spirits again. Maybe it’s become a self-fulfilling prophecy, the Emperor’s New Clothes of mood elevators – tell people that fictional Blue Monday is over and they’re immediately more inclined to go out and dance a merry jig?

But ultimately, the thing about Blue Monday is that it becomes even more so when everyone harps on about how the whole thing is rubbish, and you’re left confused because actually, you do feel quite sad.

I felt sad this morning when I discovered payday isn’t this Friday, as I had cheerfully convinced myself, but next Friday - meaning there’s a whole 10 days before I see the little chink of light from the bottom of my cavernous overdraft. Having spent the weekend thinking I was being paid this week, I also spent as though I was being paid this week. Oysters for everybody!

I felt sad when I discovered just now that we don’t have any loo roll. Or biscuits. And I felt sad when I realised that I’ve watched the last episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race on Netflix and have to wait five weeks for the new series to start (if you’ve not watched it, by the way, do – like America’s Next Top Model but with drag queens, it is everything you’ve ever wanted from television).

I also felt sad listening to commentators on the case of Lord Rennard, who seem mistakenly to believe that harassment isn’t harassment as long as you claim not to have “meant to upset anyone.” Upset, you see – not anger, or objectify, or violate a basic human right. The men on the radio hoping nobody got “upset” is a little too close to a “calm down, dear” to do my Monday blues any good.

And if it’s weather that holds the key to banishing the gloom, we can’t be too optimistic there either – Ukip’s special brand of homophobic weather forecast predicts floods, ice, fire and brimstone for as long as gay marriage is legal. Still, at least that’s something to laugh about. Valentine’s Day might bring an avalanche and we can all go sledging.

Naturally, as a woman with functioning faculties and a passing interest in gauzy fabric, I love awards season. What more does one need to brighten the bleak, bitter mornings of January and February than the excuse to sit at one’s computer with a frothy coffee typing, “Amy Adams sideboob” into the internet for an hour? The hits, the misses, the turns and the tumbles. The opportunity to find out, once and for all, what the purpose of Taylor Swift is. It’s all such a jolly promise.

But the truth is that like karaoke parties, sashimi or movies starring Katherine Heigl, awards season is one of those slightly disappointing things you’ve always forgotten your disappointment at by the time the next one rolls around.

No sooner had I woken up, opened half an eye, reached for my laptop and groggily googled, ‘Gplden gLobes reD carpt’ than I remembered why I always finish the winter feeling vaguely dissatisfied by the world (it is definitely awards season, not all the refined carbohydrates and slipper socks).

Hollywood just doesn’t know how to choose a nice frock anymore. It’s as though sheer affluence has overwhelmed our stars to the point where they can’t tell, ‘pretty’ from ‘looks like something I once did with tin foil to punish my Barbie’. Armies of stylists and hoards of designers toil for months to achieve what any of the rest of us could manage with two hours, a Debenhams giftcard and some double-sided tape.

They tend to fall largely into three categories. Predictable but dull, which means anything Reese Witherspoon wears; original but odd, which involves a lot of peplums, high necklines and hair that has been woven into its own weather-proof hat; and half-dressed, which means the sort of kidney-chilling flesh exposure that might lead normal folk to assume your outfit was half stolen by tinkers on the way to the ceremony.

It’s a good job then, if we don’t have the frocks, that we do have the funnies. If you’ve not watched Tina Fey and Amy Poehler’s opening duologue from the Golden Globes, do it now. From quipping that Gravity was “the story of how George Clooney would rather float away into space and die than spend one more minute with a woman his own age,” to August: Osage County "proving that there are still great parts in Hollywood for Meryl Streeps over 60," the whole thing was a perfectly-pitched delight.

Here’s a plan, perhaps: while the comedy giantesses take the stage by storm, we could leave the red carpet to the men – who with the occasional exception of a jazzy bowtie or lumberjack beard, have been consistently letting the side down for decades. “What were they THINKING?” the magazines can scream, over photos of Matt Damon and Colin Firth in aquamarine lamé with daring necklines. That would see me through until March just nicely.

Tuesday, 7 January 2014

The first is to learn to say ‘no’ more. Specifically to say no to the kind of strictly unnecessary social events that clog up my weeknights and make me tired and poor. The ones that take me to far-flung bits of London to see a friend of a friend’s auntie’s hairdresser playing accordion in the back room of a pub, while all the dinner ingredients I’d bought the week before fester into dismal mush at the bottom of my crisper drawer. Quality, not quantity, that is the key.

The second resolution, and I now realise this contradicts the first one a bit, is not to give up running. That’s it – no distances, no times, no big charity races or mud-covered feats of endurance. Just to not quit.

If by this time next year I haven’t managed to run a single inch farther than I can now, but still put on my trainers and had a good bash at it with some regularity, I’ll chalk it up as a triumph and buy myself a tiramisu. Quantity, not quality, that is the key.

And it has to be the key, because the truth is that I am terrible at running. Really awful. After doing it three or four times a week for the last four months, I’ve made so little progress that it’s almost scientifically fascinating. It’s very possible that I’m actually getting worse.

In the interests of transparency and to prove I’m not being all, “poor hopeless me... oh look, I’ve done the Iron Man!”, I will give you actual figures. When I started running in the first week of September, I could just about do 2km. It is now January and I can do 3km. The most I have ever, ever done is 4km, all downhill, and afterwards I lay on the bathroom floor for an hour and wept.

I wept even more when I remembered that miles are bigger than kilometres, and so in London Marathon terms I’ve just about conquered the bit between Buckingham Palace and the refreshment van.

It wouldn’t be so frustrating if everybody else in the world wasn’t also running, and with much more success. Friends who I’ve always fondly assumed were no fitter than me will casually drop in the fact they did 8km before breakfast, and I will gaze at them, wide-eyed, like the mate of the person who discovered fire. Then, worse, they try to give me tips.

“Never stop and walk!” they say. “Stop and walk every three minutes!” they say. “Eat first!” they say. “Don’t eat first!” They say. “Take water!” they say. “DON’T TAKE WATER!” they say, as I regress to year 11 PE mode and bow out of the conversation pleading lady problems and verrucas.

So yes, I’m aiming low. Just to keep on running, a bit, for as long as I can before I fall over. And if all else fails, I’ll fall back on the other resolution - when people ask if the running is going well, I will simply say ‘no’.

Saturday, 21 December 2013

Not a terrible parent, obviously – don’t go forgetting to feed them or buying them Robin Thicke CDs. But to capture the particular breed of magic favoured by the mid-90s festive oeuvre, you need to practice a bit of low-level neglect. Work too hard, fail to turn up to their nativity play because you’re doing a Big Presentation to the Big Boss for a Big Contract, then shout, “I AM TOO BUSY” down the phone when they call to tell you a Robin Redbreast has just eaten marzipan from their outstretched palm.

And then, THEN, have a heartwarming epiphany and spent Christmas Eve in a madcap adventure finding the perfect toy/travelling halfway across the country in a series of unsuitable vehicles/actually being Father Christmas for the night, thus bringing the family together again and earning your kid’s love and admiration forever. This bit really is quite key. If you only do the first part, you’re just ruining Christmas on purpose.

2.Have an almost implausible disaster!

Continuing on the bad parent theme, you could leave an eight-year-old at home and fly to France by accident. Or your Christmas lights could cause a power cut across the whole city. Or a grotesque creature from a rhyming world could try to steal Christmas. Or you could leave the same eight-year-old (now nine) at home again and fly to Florida by accident.

Whichever you choose, be sure to fix it by midnight on Christmas Eve or it’ll be stuck like that all year.

3.Have some eggnog!

I’ll leave you to make your best guess as to what eggnog might actually be. Or just make a glass of Bird’s custard and put some rum in it.

4.Do a dance!

This is an especially prudent one if you’re a) the Prime Minister, b) a cartoon skeleton or c) Lindsay Lohan.

5.Go to a department store!

If you can get accidentally locked in, sleep in the bedding section and do a montage running riot in the toy department, all the better.

6.Become a better person!

You could sit round waiting for ghosts to turn up and lead you by the hand through the shadowy reincarnations of your past misdoings – or you could speed things up by doing the modern equivalent: flicking though your Facebook albums.

Once you feel suitably repentant, make a big donation to charity and buy lunch for someone who really needs it. Then dance through the snow in a nightshirt while the end credits roll.

Thursday, 12 December 2013

Happy National Pigs in Blankets Day! How many have you eaten? I’ve had eight. It would have been more, but I misunderstood the title and spent half the day trying to get a quilt to stay on a British Saddleback.

It’s actually the UK’s first ever Pigs in Blankets Day, and this I know because along with half the other sarky journalists on Twitter, I’ve had a press release about it. I’ve also learned that in Scotland they’re known as ‘kilted sausages’, and in America they’re wrapped in dough instead - a rare example of us being ahead of our Stateside cousins when it comes to putting bacon on stuff.

Some might say there are too many official days now, that the calendar is drowning in half-baked marketing exercises dreamt up by Tedious, Predictable & Twee PR Ltd. But to them I say, never! For what is a National Something Day if not a reason to make merry, wear something novel and exceed your recommended daily calorie intake?

Tomorrow, if you didn’t know already, is Christmas Jumper Day. Which makes this Christmas Jumper Eve, the day when all the children across the land iron their non-scratchy undershirts in the hope that the magical flying knitting needles will bring them a creation high in warmth, colour AND kitsch.

In recent years it has been adopted by Save the Children UK as a fundraiser – donate £1, go to work wearing something Cliff Richard might reject as a tad too ritzy, and help “make the world better with a sweater”. I’ll be taking part, mainly for the good cause but also because it’s our office Christmas party tomorrow too, and spending the day wrapped in Primark woollies can only serve to make me look better by comparison come evening time.

I’ve been fond of supremely tacky Christmas sweaters ever since the year I unearthed Ol’ Faithful in an antiques shop in Lewes, covered in shiny beads and sequins and authentic 80s dust. It comes down past my bum, meaning it can double as a sort of jolly disco nightshirt when the heating won’t suffice.

This year my boyfriend and I have taken things to the next level, paying the ultimate tribute to our jumpers by wearing them for a photo, turning it into a Christmas card and sending it to all our relatives.

“Does it look enough like a joke?” I asked, as he Photoshopped a border of snow-capped holly round the edge. “I don’t want people to think we’re doing it seriously. I don’t want to be like Ross and Mona in that episode of Friends.”

“People will know we’re joking,” he said, with a look in his eyes that said we weren’t actually joking at all.

Monday, 9 December 2013

For something that has been happening with pretty dependable regularity every year since at least 1988 (and for a fair while before that, I’ve heard), Christmas doesn’t half sneak up on you.

I’m two days late getting my advent calendar, have only bought three presents so far and I don’t know where my novelty antlers are. I feel like Prime Minister Hugh Grant in Love Actually when he has to fight off America and go to every house in Wandsworth trying to win back Martine McCutcheon.

The mistake we make every year, of course, is to start doing Christmas too late. Whingers the world over will tell you it’s the opposite, that everything comes too early and costs too much and smells too good and oh isn’t it awful, but they are wrong.

If anything, we don’t let it come early enough. They have conditioned us to ignore Christmas until it lands square in our laps like a needy cat, mewing and shedding and demanding attention*.

Then we don’t have time and space to savour the season as it deserves. We just take a deep breath and launch ourselves through each festive hoorah, gathering pace, being loaded up with items like a pack mule, gift receipts and Lindor wrappers crunching underfoot, until we eventually fling them all off in a frantic Buckaroo manoeuvre and land on the sofa, December 27th, face-down in a trifle.

Wouldn’t it be better if instead, we revved up Christmas on about November 6th, free from judgement or mutterings? As the last firework fades in the sky, we could give Noddy Holder a megaphone to kick off proceedings and take it gently from there.

Then there would be plenty of time for lots of nice sitting around, in between all the ice skating and queuing and singing and travelling and wrapping and cooking and high-kicking with Weird Brian from HR. I honestly believe it would be more sensible, like warming up our festive muscles with some light stretching before the marathon.

For example, I found out today that the average person in the UK eats 27 mince pies every Christmas. TWENTY SEVEN. Stuffed with a clammy fist into the space of three short weeks, that’s probably enough greasy pastry to make your insides go see-though like a paper bakery bag. But distributed across a much longer period – six weeks, let’s say – it becomes just another healthy way to achieve your recommended butter and sugar intake!

As I’ve already missed this year’s early deadline, it’ll have to wait till Christmas 2014 - or extend the whole thing to the third week of January. Either way I’ll be dealing with the needy cat of Christmas the way that works best with all cats: putting a silly hat on it.

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

On the face of it, the tubes running all night from 2015 seemed rather brilliant news. No more night buses! No more two hour crawls through the backwaters of the metropolis with your sleeping head half resting in a box of Chicken Cottage! No more strategically planning your seating with reference to whoever looks least likely to be sick in the aisle!

With regular tubes throughout the night, people’s departure will be staggered and manageable - there’ll be no more desperately contorting oneself into the human Tetris of the Piccadilly line at 12:30am, as though it were the last chopper out of Saigon. We shall all be warm and safe and civilised as we speed home to bed in the safe bowels of the world’s finest metro system.

But then it suddenly dawned on me: without a last tube to catch, I’ll no longer have reasons to leave parties. The dawning of 24 hour travel means the end of excuses.

Up to now it’s always been easy – you can go out and have a nice time, relaxed in the knowledge that as soon as midnight strikes you can trill, “must catch the last tube!” and skip off like Cinderella. No one can argue with the last tube argument; we all know the alternative is sharing the back seat of the N253 with a gently drooling student vet in a penguin onesie.

But from 2015, what will I say when I want to go home?

Obviously it can never be the truth – “It’s been lovely, but I am the wrong side of 25 now and I’ve run out of small talk and there is a cup of rooibos and an electric blanket at home with my name on them” – so I’m worried that instead we’ll be compelled to think up increasingly extravagant cover stories to get us out the door.

I’ve started compiling a bank of them in advance, so I’ll be ready. “I really must go home and mist my orchids,” is a current favourite. Likewise, “I put a wash on earlier and need to hang it out before it gets that mildew smell.”

Perhaps a new code of party conduct will form. “I make a point of never staying after the guacamole's gone brown. Cheery-bye!” “It's been grand, but I think my software updates will be installed by now.” “I left the slow cooker on 6 hours ago and my beef shin is about to reach peak tenderness.”

"I need to get home to cancel my free month's trial of Amazon Prime."

"I realised this was the wrong house four hours ago but was too polite to say anything."

Monday, 25 November 2013

It’s nice when you suddenly discover you have a hobby. I didn’t try on purpose to get one - in fact I’ve always been sort of hobby-devoid, believing them the preserve of children or people who had lost their TV remote - but it just sprung up suddenly of its own accord one day, like bathroom mould. My new hobby is board games.

Not Monopoly, which I fell out of love with the day I discovered the rest of the world doesn’t play the Bravo family way; gently waiting three hours till you land on your favourite colour, then wandering off to make a cup of tea and never returning. The real Monopoly is an ugly game, exposing everybody’s secret avarice and pedantry. Plus, geographically misrepresentative - I’ve lived in London seven years and never once walked down Vine Street.

No, the games that have been bringing a flush to my cheeks on these long autumn evenings are distinctly less glam and a lot more, shall we say, nerd-adjacent. There’s Bananagrams, which is like Scrabble for people with anger management issues, Ticket to Ride, which thrillingly involves the building of railways across Europe, and then there’s the one I love most of all: Settlers of Catan.

The premise is thus: you’re on an island, composed of five key materials - wood, brick, sheep, wheat and ore. You must collect the materials to build roads, settlements and cities, conquering new territories and stealing resources off your opponents. Like all good geeky pastimes, it comes with its own special vernacular. “We built this city, we built this city on wheat and oooore,” we sing to the tune of Starship, merrily trading our cards in for tiny wooden cathedrals.

One of the things I didn’t expect to be doing with substantial chunks of my mid-twenties is spending it hunched over a kitchen table pleading for people to swap me a sheep. If you’d told early-twenties me, with her daft shoes and her ‘music taste’ and her going out sometimes more than TWICE in a WEEK that in a few short years she’d derive most satisfaction from building a tiny wooden road into someone else’s wheat field, she’d throw a kebab at your head.

But the thing is, it’s brilliant. Not only are board games largely cheap (I say ‘largely’ because my boyfriend just spent £50 on Game of Thrones: the Board Game, which comes with its own instructional dvd and a, one presumes, a vitamin D lamp), sociable and a good excuse to spend most of your weekend sitting down with a mug of tea on hand, but all that strategic thinking has got to be good for the brain cells.

Now I just need to make it cool, perhaps by turning it into ‘strip’ Settlers of Catan, or using phrases like, “Hey dude, you boarding this weekend?” to give the whole thing an extreme sports edge. If bored people are boring people then board people are… well, something else entirely.

Tuesday, 5 November 2013

It makes a lot of noises, generally all of
the time it’s on, but this is a new noise. Specifically, a jingly noise. “Did
you hear that?” I ask my boyfriend. “The boiler is making a jingly noise.”

He gives me his world-weary look, the same
one he uses when he opens my laptop and finds “ear cancer” or “do people still
get consumption from tight bras” typed into the search bar.

“Listen!” I say, as it does it again.
“Jingly. It sounds like there’s a set of keys jingling about. That’s not
normal.”

“Maybe there is a set of keys jingling
about in it,” he suggests, ever the pragmatist. I stick my head under the
boiler and peer up, silently begging it not to explode on my face. No keys.

“I think it might explode,” I say, at the exact
same time he says, “It’s not going to explode.”

But he doesn’t know it isn’t going to
explode, he’s only guessing. One of the things that bothers me most in life is
not knowing for definite whether or not things are going to explode. And
surely, just after saying “it’s not going to explode” is statistically the most
likely time for something to explode?

This could be exactly like in my old flat,
when I thought we had a gas leak and everyone kept saying, “we don’t have a gas
leak,” in exasperated voices, then it turned out that we DID HAVE A GAS LEAK. Neurosis
1: logic 0.

And so we sit – him watching Game of
Thrones, me watching the boiler. I have convinced myself that if I stare out
the boiler, nothing bad will be allowed to happen.A watched boiler never explodes; that’s the
motto.

The jingling stops, then starts again, then
stops again.

I Google ‘boiler making jingly noises’ for
reassurance, and am dismayed to find that not a single other person on the
whole of the internet has had a jingly boiler. Not one. There are boilers that
bump, and bang, and rattle, and wheeze (which now I’ve written it looks like a
fantastic dance record from the late 50s) but no boilers that jingle.

Maybe it’s just a matter of phrasing. I try
‘boiler making jangly noises’, and find nothing. I try ‘boiler making tinkly
noises’, and find nothing. I try ‘boiler making metallic noises’ and find one
post on a forum from a man who seems to think this is A Very Bad Thing, so I quickly
close the tab in fear and go back to staring at the boiler.

If I keep staring
at the boiler, it can’t possibly explode – that would just be too much of a
coincidence. Maybe if I tell more people about it, the boiler definitely won’t
explode. Maybe if I write a column about it, the boiler won’t explode.

Sunday, 3 November 2013

Gather
round, gather round. It’ll be better than my theory about how silica gel is
probably utterly delicious but ‘the man’ just doesn’t want us to find out, I
promise.

This is it: IS SOCIAL AWKWARDNESS THE
SCOURGE OF BRITAIN?

Ignoring the fact that I’ve started to
think in booming, paranoid Daily Mail headlines (IS THIS BISCUIT GIVING ME
CANCER? QUICK, I MUST FLAUNT MY CURVES IN THE GHERKIN AISLE AT LIDL), I think
I might be onto something here.

It came to me in a flash on the tube
earlier, after someone had got up and left a vacant seat, which a teenage girl
and I had both made a move to sit in. Naturally, the minute I realised I had
competition, I got flustered, backed off and walked halfway down the carriage
to prove I never wanted the seat anyway.

Meanwhile the girl tried to give me the
seat. “No, no, it’s fine.” I said airily over my shoulder as I scuttled away.
“No honestly, you have it!” she clucked, leaving it empty. “No, no, haha, you
have it.” I shrugged, turning pink. “Seriously! Have it!” she trilled after me.
“It’s FINE!” I snapped. And just like that, I was suddenly the rude person.

Things like this happen to me at least
three times a week. I hate drawing attention to myself in public, so in an
effort not to make a fuss or prolong awkward human contact for any longer than
is strictly necessary, I come off cold and grumpy.

I’d like to take this moment to apologise
to every cheery shop assistant and waiter that I’ve muttered one-word replies
to without looking them in the eye. I’m not a horrible person, I promise, it’s
just that unprecedented small talk makes me squirm. Even being asked if I want
a carrier bag makes me squirm. Make me wait too long for a receipt I don’t need,
and I practically break into a sweat.

But if it happens to me, then maybe it’s
happening to lots of you too! Not all of you, of course, because there must be
the opposite faction to cause these painful situations to begin with (I like to
think of them as “non-awkwards”, or “the selfish friendly”), but plenty of you.
If a significant number of you are also out in the world looking accidentally
rude on a regular basis, think of all the ways society could be suffering!

The non-awkwards are probably angry at the
awkwards for their supposed rudeness, while the awkwards are angry at the
non-awkwards for making them feel awkward to begin with. And so we rattle
around in the world, the non-awkwards creating loud scenes and the awkwards staring at their feet trying not to get involved.

I’d propose some sort of government-funded
initiative to combat social awkwardness and teach smoother public interactions
with strangers – but I’m just too shy to suggest it.

Monday, 28 October 2013

For every generation there’s a marker that
officially means you are getting old. Not old-old, but… established. Seasoned.
The moment you realise certain avenues are probably now closed off to you
forever.

Traditionally it was when the policeman
started looking young; my mother claims for her it was Blue Peter presenters.
In the Middle Ages it was probably the man who pulled the corpse cart. I,
meanwhile, have just realised that if I were to enter the next series of The X Factor,
I would be in the ‘Over 25’ category.

I hadn’t planned on entering the next
series of X Factor, obviously, but now all I can think about is how, if a freak
accident left me with a miraculous or at least passable singing voice and
completely removed the part of my brain that feels shame, I’d be doing it
alongside the olds and the weirdoes.

I would be a Steve Brookstein. A
Christopher Maloney. They’d put me in a jazzy blazer and make me sway on a
podium while the young’uns did cartwheels in hotpants. I wouldn’t even get the
regional vote - we’re not like Ireland or Newcastle; nobody from Sussex has
ever voted for someone on the strength of them also being from Sussex.

Of course, anywhere outside of X Factor,
professional football, baby ballroom and the Daily Mail’s acceptable “phwoar”
limit, over 25 is not old at all. It’s sprightly. I still only use the second
cheapest Boots under-eye cream. But in the bizzaro world of commercial pop (a
world where Robin Thicke is allowed to put on Misogyny: The Musical for three
minutes of family entertainment, it’s worth noting), I am now basically Methuselah.

My best friend turned 26 this week - and so
we did some friendship maths.

“We’ve been friends for 18 years.”

“No we haven’t, you didn’t like me in
middle school.”

“Ok, we’ve known each other for 18 years.”

“18 years!”

“Our acquaintanceship covers three decades.
When we met, John Major was still Prime Minister.”

“Our acquaintanceship is old enough to
vote!”

“We could have an adult child by now! No…
no wait, that doesn’t work.”

However you look at it, it’s a long time.
Together we have been through four stages of education, three different cities,
many jobs, many flats and at least eight dubious haircuts.

It’s comforting to know, then, that if I do
find myself in a freak voice-enhancing, shame-deadening accident and want to go
on X Factor, I could just take her with me and enter in the groups category
instead.

One of the biggest regrets of my adult life
so far is that I still don’t have a proper signature.

Signatures, as everyone who ever spent
hours practicing theirs in the back of a biology textbook knows, are one of the
defining markers of grown-updom. They should be an instinctive flourish,
blossoming naturally from your pen like a natural extension of your personality,
as you write a cheque for your brand new jet ski/fax machine/horse.

“Look at me,” a good signature says, “I am
a person of substance and understated panache. Look at me flow, like quality
port from a crystal decanter.”

But mine doesn’t flow - not even like
lukewarm WKD from a mug. It’s stilted and awkward and always gets stuck around
the B. Even worse, it has a weird bit at the end that was once a star (oh, the
shame) but has now turned into a pointless loopy thing.

I could stop doing the pointless loopy
thing, but then my signature would just be “Lauren Bravo”, in boring round
letters, not even joined up. And besides, it’s on all my important contracts
and bank accounts, so it’s pretty much set in stone now. If I wanted to change
it I’d probably have to apply to a bureau or something, and be fined for
operating a pen without due care or attention.

Of course, the wider issue here is that
handwriting itself, like writing cheques for jet skis/fax machines/horses, is
quickly becoming an anachronism. It’s just another thing the Millennial
generation are losing, along with our dignity, our muscle definition and our
chances of buying a house without eBaying a kidney first.

There are people among my close
acquaintance whose handwriting I’ve never even seen - which is unnerving,
because it means I can’t do one of those ‘What Does Your Handwriting Say About
You?’ features from Jackie magazine to find out if they’re secretly a lunatic.

These days I write by hand so rarely that
when I do it comes out all funny, like the first day back after the holidays. All
those years of defiance in primary school, fashioning little balloons above my
‘i’s and doing contraband things with the tails on my ‘g’s, just went to waste;
while my 98 year old Auntie Elsie still has the immaculate penmanship of a royal
scribe, mine looks like it has been danced onto the page by a muddy pigeon.

And so it is reserved only for birthday
cards, angry notes and any congratulatory sentiment that can’t just be sent as
a lovely warm text message. Maybe at some point handwriting will be a quaint
retro hobby, like people who learn jive dancing or crochet doilies.

I’d start a petition for the protection of
handwriting, but then I’d have to sign it.

My boyfriend and I have now been cohabiting for three months,
and it’s been an exciting voyage of discoveries.

Deciding whether or not I actually care when he leaves the
loo seat up (I don’t, as it currently stands); discovering the delightful ways
in which our separate tastes in décor can be merged (“how about we put the
copies of Modern Railway magazine UNDER the patchwork throw?”); and gently introducing
my beloved to the quantities of blonde hair I shed over every surface, for
which conventional hoovering poses no match at all.

Then there is the cooking. Before we moved in together, he
had five signature dishes: a stir-fry, a curry, a chilli, a sausage pasta and a
very good cheese on toast. This was his well-balanced arsenal, the carb and veg
and protein that saw him through lonely evenings and special occasions alike.

I wouldn’t call him a fussy eater, because to me that is an
insult of the very foulest order - I would rather sit next to a flatulent camel
than the type of person who won’t eat a crisp until you tell them what flavour
it is - but it’s true that he doesn’t see food in the same way I do.

I see every morsel as a party of happy flavours, shouting
“eat me! Have seconds! I AM YOUR BEST FRIEND”, whereas he sees it as a mixed gathering
of intimidating strangers, where it’s best to stay in the kitchen with the
people you know who definitely aren’t awful. (Incidentally we have the exact
opposite approach to real parties).

Thinking that living together was the perfect opportunity to
broaden these horizons, and I began by teaching him to make lasagne. Actually
that’s as far as I’ve got, because on lasagne he has stuck – possibly quite
literally, there’s a lot of béchamel and melted Cathedral City involved. I think
I have eaten more lasagne during the last two months than in the rest of my
life put together.

Make no mistake, they are very good lasagnes. But they are
also very big, which means leftovers, and so we are often eating double or
occasionally triple lasagne over the course of two days – which is an awful lot
of minced beef and refined starch for even the steeliest stomach to take.

There are lasagnes everywhere. I am seeing them in my
dreams; considering them for regrouting the bathroom tiles. He’s like the
Dolmio dad, except Scottish and not made of felt.

“We’ve got whojummy and whatsit coming to dinner,” I’ll say.
“Shall I do something lovely and light made of vegetables?”

“No,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “I’ll do my lasagne.”
And out comes the pasta and the passata and the Gaviscon.

The loo seat I can cope with, Modern Railways magazine I can
tolerate. But if cohabiting drives me to vegetarianism, there are going to need
to be some serious changes.